


Tides and Progressions

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the approximate one hundred and fifty years that England spent with America as his colony, they grow and change - but the heart stays the same, always stays the same but perhaps with changes no one knows of, sometimes to the chagrin of their owners.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tides and Progressions

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ April 24, 2010. 
> 
> This is heavily, heavily inspired by three authors: Katherine Mansfield, Elizabeth Bowen, and Jean Rhys. Funny how British modernist writers make me write colonial!era fic based in British America. Some lines are directly from one of those three, rewritten slightly, as a means to practice writing in their style (originally a school assignment). Also, I tried to give a somewhat alternative look at how England and his colony interacted. I don't know if I succeeded and now that I think about it, I'm sure it's been done before.

  
  
**I.**  
  
He’d built the house a little under a month ago, as a temporary means to live in this new colony. He sat outside it now, in a little chair beneath the shade of the large tree. England dreamed the morning away, taking a temporary break from the work he ultimately would have to move to do. He did nothing, for now. He looked up at the dark, close, dry leaves of the tree above him and watched the chinks of blue filtering between.   
  
On the grass beside him, lying between two bundled up blankets to serve as rudimentary pillows, was the boy he’d found. He watched him out of the corner of his eye, but the boy was sound asleep. He lay, his head turned away from his caretaker. His fine blond hair shifted in the light breeze and save for the deep inhales and exhales, the little child did not move.   
  
It’d been a little under a few weeks since the little child came into England’s care, and the child had yet to learn proper English. He still rattled off in that language of his, smiling inanely up at England as if expecting England to understand. What served to annoy England was the child’s presumptuousness when speaking to him in his incomprehensible tongue, and then looking disappointed when England couldn’t speak back to him. But, really, if he was honest, what annoyed England the most was the boy’s existence entirely.   
  
England clasped his hands over his head and crossed his feet. It was very pleasant to know that the surrounding area was completely empty. It was comforting to know that everybody was away from his home, out of sight, out of hearing—working or playing, with their commanding officer not around to keep an eye on them. He had the garden to himself; he was alone, save for the sleeping boy.   
  
England frowned; he sat up quickly in his chair and clasped his ankles. He frowned at the grass, then shifted his gaze as the little boy kicked out his foot in his sleep, letting out a small sigh and shifting, rousing from sleep for half a moment before lapsing back into the dreamland. England’s eyes narrowed.  
  
It would be easier if the child did not exist. To come to a new land to claim as one’s own only to discover that there was a being like him—it would only cause problems in the end. England understood this from past experience, from being the child staring up at a new caretaker, speaking words he did not understand, met only with a look of confusion. It would have been easier for Rome, if the young England had not existed. So, too, for England, would it have been easier if this little child, this little colony, would just disappear. It would be easier if this land could just become an extension of England, not an individual entity. The fact that this land had its own being did not bode well for England’s desire to just control—he had enough problems with his siblings and other nuisances.   
  
He stared at the child, glared almost, as if to try to convey, silently, that it was all the child’s fault. It was all America’s fault for all his current problems. It was America’s fault that he couldn’t be completely alone in this new land.   
  
As if sensing his gaze on him, the child awoke again, and turned over. He lay facing England. His dark-blue, baby eyes were open; he looked as though he was peering up at his caretaker. And suddenly his face dimpled; it broke into a wide smile, missing a few teeth. A perfect beam.   
  
The child said something, words England could not recognize. It was a happy smile, though, England reasoned, letting the words pass right by him, making no effort to understand the child’s attempted communication.   
  
There was something so quaint, so unexpected about that smile that England smiled to himself. But he checked himself, buckling the smile down, and said to the boy coldly, “I don’t like children.”  
  
America wiggled along the grass, propping himself up on one of the blankets and peering up at England, his brow furrowed. He was trying to understand, at least. Good, England thought, as that was the way it was meant to be—the colony learning from the homeland.   
  
“You are a perfectly aggravating little thing,” England told him primly. America’s eyebrows furrowed further, but no comprehension dawned in his bright blue eyes.   
  
He frowned thoughtfully and then said something to England.   
  
“I really must set about teaching you English,” England said with a sigh.  
  
America’s beam returned, and he smiled widely up at England, obviously seeing something past the cold way he spoke, the way his brow furrowed. Blue eyes stared straight into green eyes and England wanted to look away, but wouldn’t, as that would be too much of an act of submission, and he refused to let a little child win him over.   
  
England dropped off her chair on to the grass. The soft ground cushioned beneath him.  
  
“Why do you keep on smiling?” he said severely, “If you knew what I was saying and thinking, you wouldn’t.”   
  
But America only squeezed up his eyes, slyly, and rolled his head on the blanket. His smile still in place, the little thing even had the gall to giggle. England felt something shift in his chest at the sound, but he ignored it. He lifted his hand, unsure why he did, perhaps to cuff the boy, perhaps to push himself away from the child—but little America, with a surprisingly strong grip England would never quite be used to, grasped three of his fingers and held firm.   
  
England was astonished at the confidence of this little creature. He watched in quiet curiosity as America explored the hand he now had in his grasp. He turned England’s hand over, examining the lines on his palm, the curl of his fingers, the rotation of his thumb. He flipped it over again and stared at the knuckles. England watched America watch the hand.  
  
England waited until the boy’s grasp slackened before he smirked and flipped his hand quickly, pressing the palm to the boy’s face and knocking him back gently against the blanket. The child screeched in surprise before he started laughing, loudly, unrestrained, and with joyful abandon. He grasped England by his wrist and laughed, squirming against the grass and grinning, open-mouthed, eyes alight, up to England.  
  
“You,” England whispered, biting his lip. “You are a ridiculous little thing, aren’t you?”  
  
The boy smiled up at him so widely that it made his eyes squint until England couldn’t see the blue eyes anymore and the child was rolling with his delight. The shift in England’s chest rattled against his ribcage, and he felt as if he had missed something all this time.   
  
He lifted his hands and grasped the little boy’s feet, lifting his legs up off the ground momentarily and delighting in the way the child’s squealing laughter renewed itself. He dropped it back down and flipped the boy over onto his stomach, then onto his back again until America was kicking and squirming, England’s fingers dancing across the underside of the boy’s toes.  
  
The tears danced in England’s eyes now, tears he didn’t realize were there—mirth, happiness, the relief of such intense loneliness, connection—connection—he breathed a small whisper to the boy, “Hello, little one.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
The boy, at least, was intelligent. He learned the proper language quickly enough. It was a relief for England to be able to hold full conversations with America without him slipping into his savage language, at the very least. Though England would never admit it, he had grown attached to the child, and liked to think the boy felt the same.   
  
Their time together was quickly ending, however. England was needed back home, though he planned to return soon enough, to check on the progress of his colonists and make sure they hadn’t neglected their duties or spiraled into misfortune. If he was honest with himself, a part of him was already longing to see this little boy again.  
  
Regardless of how many times England had explained his plan to return the following year, America held fast to his coattails. “But why must you leave?”  
  
“Because, America, I must return home,” England said calmly.   
  
“Can’t I go with you? Please, England?” America asked, and still clung to England’s coat, squirming up to grasp his leg instead, and his hold was firm. England never would be used to the boy’s strength, even in one so young and so tiny.   
  
England sighed and stroked the top of the boy’s head. “No.”   
  
That hadn’t been the answer the child had expected and his face rippled with displeasure.   
  
“Perhaps another time,” England relented.   
  
America stared up at him, his eyes welling up with tears. England sighed, sadly, crouching down in front of the young child—looking no older than six—and wiped his tears away with a callused thumb.   
  
“I’ll return,” he reminded him. “It’s only a year, America.”  
  
“That’s such a long time,” the child whimpered.  
  
England gave him a wan smile. “As you grow older, a year won’t seem very long at all.”   
  
America sniffled and clung to England, this time wrapping his arms around England’s neck and hugging him. It was improper, but England found he didn’t have the heart to push the child away when he was crying like that, so instead he straightened, scooping the child up and cradling him against his chest. America shifted, clinging to him and clenching his eyes shut, resting his ear against England’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. England felt his throat constrict and he shifted, resting his head against America’s, cradling him and almost rocking him.  
  
How had this child already become so precious to him?   
  
  
\---  
  
  
The months passed, as they often did. The years passed, and England returned every year. The summer and autumn months were always so soft, so lively for England. Those were the times when he felt it was easiest to smile. Every time he returned, that child would be waiting for him on the docks, leaning out forward and clenching the wooden paneling to keep from falling straight into the harbor. And he’d be on his feet the second England was within his sight, jumping up and down from excitement and waving, tears in his eyes. And once England was upon him, the older nation couldn’t even lecture his colony for undignified behavior because America would cling to him and cry over how much he’d missed him.   
  
Every summer, without fail, when his ship came into harbor, America would be there, ecstatic and inconsolable until he was in England’s arms again. England was not used to being needed so incredibly and it left his chest aching with longing, wishing he could just jump down onto the docks and scoop the child out—it was so painful, to see him looking up at him with such bright eyes, only being a few lengths away from him but having to wait until he could get off the ship to be reunited with the child.   
  
“I missed you,” the child would whisper in his ear, as if it was a true secret shared only between the two of them.   
  
England would nuzzle against him and always murmur, “I missed you as well.”   
  
But in the months he would spend in England, and as America grew older, the years between their meetings, England’s mind would wander and he would wonder if he truly loved America. He would think about it long nights on the ship sailing back towards America or away from America, the rocking motion of the waves lulling his mind into far-reaching questions to ponder over.  
  
The heart might think it knew better, but the senses knew that absence blotted people out. There was no such thing as an absent loved one. The loved one became a traitor by breaking, however unwillingly or sadly, out of the joint zone. It was a hard judgment to be passed, but it worked in regard to the heart. Willing absence, however unwilling, was the negation of love.   
  
When he was away from America, he wondered if he could love him, if he truly loved him. Being away from him, he had to wonder if the child was really as important as he might think. Part of him knew this was just the separation, the ocean stretched between them—he could remember the child’s smile, the child’s laughter, the way the child held onto him and didn’t want to let go. He remembered the way his heart moved painfully whenever that child cried.   
  
To remember, however, could sometimes be nothing more than a cold duty, for England could only remember in the limited way that it was bearable. Thinking back on all the people he’d known and loved—his royalty, his saviors, his heroes—it was all a distant memory, something he would never experience again. He observed the small rites, but he defended himself against those terrible memories that were stronger than his will, almost, at times. England knew how to live without the people he’d loved—his past kings, his past queens, the people who had become nothing more than lore and myths to his people. He’d learned to live without them, not because he could deny or forget the unfailing closeness he’d shared with them, but because he no longer had them near him.   
  
It was so easy for his heart to fasten onto a ghost, so painful. He understood why America feared them so readily. And he feared that it was the same for America—that in his absence, his heart grew colder, not from lack of love but from lack of closeness. He questioned his love for America not because of infidelity to the boy’s affection or because he’d deny the closeness between his small colony, but because he no longer felt the little boy’s cheek pressed against his own, or the smell of the child after he’d played in the field the entire day.  
  
He would wonder all this, until the ship pulled into dock, and America was waiting for him, tears rolling down his cheeks and springing into England’s arms, already outstretching on their own accord to hold him.  
  
 _I love him. I love this child._   
  
He always thought that, when he was reunited with America, and he promised himself he would never question that love again. But without fail the questioning would arise, and it would leave England almost to tears to think that perhaps America thought the same thoughts, felt the same absence and separation—and England feared it made America’s heart grow cold, as well.   
  
  
  
  
  
**II.**  
  
The tide was out; the beach was deserted. The sun beat down, beat down hot and fiery on the fine sand, baking the grey and blue and black and white-veined pebbles and the sand. It sucked up the little drop of water and lay in the hollow of the curved shells. Nothing seemed to move but the small sand-hoppers. Even from the distance, England could see as much. It was going to be a good summer, he suspected. Profitable. America always seemed to flourish when it was sunny, and it suited the weather to match his disposition.   
  
“What are you looking at, England?”   
  
England and America were resting together. The little boy, wearing only his short drawers and his undershirt, his arms and legs bare, lay on one of the puffed-up pillows of his caretaker’s bed. England sat at the rocker near the window, his knitting in his lap.   
  
“Tell me, England,” said America.  
  
The older nation sighed, whipped the wool twice around his thumb, and drew the bone needle through.   
  
“At the sand-hoppers.”  
  
America perked up, straining his little body to see well enough from the open window, but even as he squinted—was the boy’s eyesight poor?—he didn’t seem to see what was out there, or he didn’t find the sand-hoppers interesting to watch.   
  
“Oh,” America said and flopped back down onto England’s bed.   
  
“I was also thinking,” the empire admitted quietly.  
  
“About what?” demanded the young colony.   
  
“My queen,” England said primly, staring at his knitting but not paying attention to it.   
  
“And?” America prompted, displeased with England’s delay. He asked, without the sense of sympathy or understanding what he was asking, “The one who died recently, England?”   
  
“She’s… yes,” England said with a sigh, sad and distant.  
  
America wasn’t sure if he liked the face England was making then. “Does it make you sad to think of her, England?”  
  
It was the man’s turn to consider. Did it make him sad? To look back. To stare down the years, like that, knowing that she would not be the last to die during his lifetime—for however long he would exist as he did. Did it make him sad? No, life was like that. Life was like that, and his heart had already forgotten how close it’d been, and soon it would be the same with Queen Anne. He would never forget her, forget the way he’d loved her, as he loved all his kings and queens, even the horrible ones, especially the best ones. He may forget her exact features, the exact way of which she spoke—but he would not forget her. That was the way life was. The heart moved, time moved. The dead did not.   
  
“No, America.”   
  
“But why?” America asked. He lifted one bare arm and began to draw things in the air. “Why did Queen Anne have to die? She wasn’t that old, was she?”   
  
England tried to focus on his knitting—wishing he had some embroidery to do instead, as that was much more soothing. But America needed new socks, as per usual. “It just happened,” he said in an absorbed voice. “She battled with a disease for many years, America.”   
  
America pursed his lips together, staring up at the ceiling, focusing on the sound of his breathing.   
  
“Does everybody have to die?” he asked.  
  
“Everybody.”  
  
“… Me?” America asked, sounding fearful and incredulous.   
  
England ignored the lurch in his heart, the desire to deny it—they would live for a long time, but England knew. Even they would someday disappear. And it was with dread and a sense of guilt that England remembered the early days with America—decades ago now—when he’d wished that America had not ever existed. He remembered with guilt all the times before, the first few years of knowing the boy, where he’d wondered if it was true that he loved America, if it was true that his love could wither away with absence. He knew better now, after years of watching the child grow—he would never wish for him to disappear, never wish to not love him.   
  
“Someday, my darling,” England relented at last, staring at the young boy. But not for a long time. No, nations—and colonies, England reminded himself—lasted for far longer than any human. It would be a long time before America disappeared—England secretly hoped not for thousands of years, and even for one as old as he was, it was hard to imagine so much time to pass.   
  
“But, England.” America waved his left leg and waggled the toes. He didn’t seem completely unconcerned, but was doing his best to hide the fear bubbling in his chest. “What if I just _won’t_?”  
  
The older man sighed again and drew a long thread from the ball. Then he couldn’t help but give a light chuckle—the answer was so like the lad. His chest glowed with warmth and affection before he sobered, thinking upon the child’s question.   
  
“We’re not asked, America,” he said sadly. “It happens to all of us sooner or later.”  
  
America lay still thinking this over. He didn’t want to die. It meant he would have to leave here, leave everywhere, forever, leave—leave England. He rolled over quickly.  
  
“England,” he said in a startled voice.  
  
“What, my dear?”   
  
“ _You’re_ not to die,” America said, very much decided.  
  
“Ah, America…” England looked up, smiled, and shook his head. “Let’s not talk about this.”  
  
“But you’re not to. You couldn’t leave me. You couldn’t not be here. Promise me you won’t ever do it, England,” America pleaded. “It’s already bad enough having to wait every summer to see you.”   
  
The older nation went on knitting.  
  
“Promise me! Say never!”  
  
But still his caretaker was silent. England was strong, he knew this. But even he was not so delusional to make such promises like that—not with the way the magic flowed in this world, the way the spirits were always listening, the way words held meaning and weighed a person, or a nation, down. Even if he felt himself strong, powerful, unbeatable by any means, he would not allow himself the cockiness of past nations and empires, who met their end after the promises of never dying.   
  
America rolled off the bed; he couldn’t bear it any longer, and lightly he leapt on to his caretaker’s knees, clasped his hands round the older nation’s neck and began shaking him.  
  
“Say never… say never… say never—” he gasped his tiny fingers dancing over England’s exposed flesh and the tears collecting in the corner of his eyes. And then he began, very softly, to tickle his caretaker.  
  
“America!” the older nation dropped his knitting as he gasped out a short laugh. He swung back in the rocker. He began to tickle America.   
  
“Say never, say never, say never,” gurgled America through his laughter and squirming. They laid there laughing in each other’s arms. England scooped the squirming boy up, dropping him on the bed and tickling his sides until the child was screeching, breathless, with laughter.   
  
The day melted away, but still England remained silent.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“England,” America said one day, a few decades later, looking up from where he sat in the garden.   
  
England glanced over at America and gave him a slight smile. “Yes, my darling?”   
  
“I love you,” America said, confident, puffing up his chest.  
  
The empire looked startled a moment, dropping the chunk of weeds he held in his hand and blinked owlishly at America, completely taken aback by such an abrupt and plain statement.   
  
“Ah…” he said.   
  
America stared at him expectantly, legs crossed and arms pressed down on the ground in front of him, leaning forward and staring at England inquisitively. England stared at him and shifted uncomfortably—it made him happy, to hear the words, but he hadn’t expected it.  
  
“England?” America asked.   
  
The empire smiled and dusted his hands over his pants before reaching out his hand and brushing the boy’s hair from his face, his fingers lingering.   
  
America beamed at him, closing his eyes and leaning into the touch.   
  
England pet him a moment before shaking his hand. “I love you, America.”   
  
America’s bright smile widened, his happiness unrivaled.   
  
England shook his head, smiling a little. “Silly—who’d have known it would make you this happy?”  
  
“I’m really happy!” America said, laughing to prove it. His smile was unrestrained. He scooted over to England, crawling into his lap and wrapping his arms around England’s neck, pressing his ear against England’s chest as he often did. England felt himself sigh and wrap his arms around America, holding him close. America smiled. “I really love you, England!”   
  
“Yes, yes, I heard you,” England whispered, blushing with pleasure. No one had ever said those words before—his little colony… “What’s brought all this on, then?”   
  
“I heard two people behind the church saying it the other day,” America said. “And I realized I’d never told you before.”   
  
“Two…” England trailed off, shaking his head. Lovers, then. The innocence of his colony was one that made England’s heart glow. “I see.”   
  
America lapsed into a thoughtful silence, then said. “They’re going to get married, because they love each other.”   
  
England jolted. “Is—that so?”   
  
“Yes,” America said with a sage little nod. He pressed his ear to England’s heard again, listening to the soothing thumping of his heart. “When I get older, will we get married, England?”   
  
“C-certainly not,” England said, quickly, expecting the answer but by no means feeling less uncomfortable by the question. He cleared his throat a few times. “An empire does not marry his colony, my darling.”   
  
America squinted up his face. “Oh.”  
  
England let out a small sigh, hoping that the topic would move on from there, in the end. He stroked the boy’s hair absently, trying to pat down the little flyaway hair of Nantucket, though it stubbornly stayed upright. He contented himself with threading his fingers through the child’s hair and brushing it behind his ear and away from his cheeks.   
  
America lifted his head and stared up at England. “Can two nations get married?”   
  
England nearly choked again—he should have known better than to think that America would let a topic go once his curiosity was perked. England thought of France and his wedding proposal before and shivered. “Only ever for political reasons.”   
  
“Oh…” America said quietly, thinking this over. “It’s not that way for humans, though. They can get married for economic reasons… but they can also marry for love.”   
  
“That’s right,” England agreed.  
  
America nodded. “Yes…” He ducked his head, pursing his lips. Then he looked back up at England. “England—why am I different from everybody else?”   
  
“What ever do you mean, my lad?”   
  
“I don’t age like the other boys who look like me. Remember those boys I would go down to the river to play with, the spring after that winter you got to stay because the harbor froze over?”   
  
“Yes, I remember.” It’d been the only winter he’d ever spent with America, and it’d been horribly cold and wet, and even America, who’d experienced it his entire life, despised it. They’d spent most of the winter huddled together in America’s little home, trying to keep warm.   
  
“That was ten years ago,” America said quietly. “They’re all big, like you, now. I still look like this.” He looked out over the horizon, away from England. He slowly uncurled his arms from around England’s neck and let them fall into his lap. “I had to move around or else they’d have thought I was a witch.”   
  
England frowned. America looked up at him.   
  
“You’re very lonely, aren’t you?”  
  
America gave him a lopsided smile. “I get to meet lots of people! But I… can’t stay for very long. And I can’t really play like I used to, because no one is as strong as me. I might hurt someone, again.” There’d been a time when America still played with children like him that he’d accidentally shoved a girl into the river—the middle of it, several feet from the bank, where she’d almost drowned. England had been quick to move his young colony to another township, before the word could spread of his child’s incredible strength. “So…” He looked down, smile faltering a little. “It’s… a little lonely. That’s why I’m always so happy when England comes back!”  
  
England cupped the boy’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, my dearest.”   
  
America shook his head and then shifted, pressing one cheek against England’s hand. He lifted a hand and touched England’s hand gently. England did not pull his hand away, though he wondered if he should, because the boy’s eyes were thoughtful now—still wide-eyed, still as bright as ever, but there was something there he’d never noticed before.   
  
“I know that you can’t stay, England. I’m used to it!”   
  
“Even so…” England began and then trailed off with a shake of his head. He stroked the boy’s cheek before dropping his hands away and moving to stand.   
  
America pouted at him but climbed out of England’s lap, grabbing England’s hand and effortlessly hauling the larger, taller nation to his feet. He grinned up at England’s slightly bewildered expression—he would never be used to the boy’s strength.   
  
“It’s sad when we have to part,” America said. “But I’m always really happy when I can see you again! So it’s okay, because even when you’re gone, I’m waiting for you to come back and looking forward to when we can see each other again!”   
  
“… Is that so?”  
  
“Yes!” He beamed.   
  
The boy smiled up at him so earnestly, his words so young and innocent, that England almost cried. He lifted his gaze to the sky, instead, and told himself that his eyes were burning with unshed tears because he’d looked too directly into the sun.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
When his ship came into dock, America did not cry and squirm with the desire to fling himself at England. He waited calmly, unable to wipe away the big grin on his face. America waited until England was off the boat before he scrambled over to him, flinging himself into England’s arms and hugging him around the waist, pressing his face into the warmth of his sailing uniform—smelling like the sea and salted meat.   
  
“Welcome back,” he whispered, muffled, into England’s red coat.   
  
England stroked the back of the boy’s head, smiling fondly. “Sorry to have kept you waiting, my darling.”   
  
  
  
  
  
**III.**  
  
The day that America was not waiting for him at the docks was a cool day in May. England’s ship pulled into port and he moved to the edge, just as he did every year, his eyes going to a spot on the dock where he was used to America standing. Over the past century and a half, slightly more, that England had visited America, they had had to move locations to keep from arousing suspicion from the humans who didn’t live past a century. But no matter where America was, England always came to him—even if the child lived inland, he made a point to be there at the shoreline when England arrived, it’d become something of a tradition.  
  
Which was why England felt cold as he searched the docks for the child—not a child, he reminded himself, for America had grown—a young man. He searched for the young man, his charge, but caught no sight of his unruly golden hair, his bright blue eyes, the energetic waving from the docks.   
  
England stepped off the ship, removing his hat and tucking it beneath his arm as he walked, slower, looking around for America.   
  
But he was not there.  
  
England refused to let himself be disappointed, but he could not ignore the way his heart clenched—  
  
It was lonely.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
He reached America’s house a little over an hour later. He stood in the front garden, frowning at the locked doors and the darkened windows.   
  
“That boy…” he muttered under his breath.   
  
He released an aggravated sigh and turned on his heel, resolved to stay in an inn for the night, seeing as how the sun was setting and he had no idea of the whereabouts of his charge. But as soon as he’d decided to do so, he heard the pounding of footsteps beyond the garden wall. England froze, waiting patiently to see if it was indeed America—but he knew already that it was, as he would have recognized this footfalls anywhere.   
  
Sure enough, a few moments later America whipped around the side of the high wall, grasping the edge to swing through the opening and skidding to a stop when he saw England standing there, very haggard and very aggravated, the collar of his red coat turned up and his face smoothed into a disappointed frown.   
  
America, panting, out of breath, managed to gasp out, “England! You’re here!”   
  
“America,” England greeted, trying to remain cool even though he felt the beginnings of a smile upon seeing his haggard, cheerful colony stumbling over himself to get over to his empire. “So you are here after all.”   
  
“I’m sorry!” America said, and he stumbled forward—so unused to being so tall, so large, still growing even now—and moved towards England. England was unprepared, but not unhappy, when America swept the empire into a bear-like grip and held on tight, squeezing him. He held so tightly, leaned back slightly, so that England’s feet actually left the ground for half a moment. “I knew you were coming today but I lost track of time and I ran to the harbor but your ship was already there so I ran here and you’re here! Hello!”   
  
England let out a small grunt as America squeezed him tightly and then eventually set him back down on his feet, unwrapping his arms from around the elder. England dusted himself off and adjusted his hat before thinking better of it and taking it off to tuck under his arm.   
  
“I was worried,” England admitted. “You’ve never failed to meet me before.”  
  
America’s big grin rippled away to something more apologetic and thoughtful. “I’m sorry, England. I’d meant to be there—I’d lost track of time.”  
  
England sniffed and turned his face away. “It matters not, boy. I am more than capable of navigating my way to your home, evidently. Now unlock the door, I’m tired from my travels.”  
  
“Right!” America said, chipper, grasping England’s arm and leading him towards the house as he unlocked the door and let his empire go in first.   
  
England found himself to be in an cross mood the entire night—for while the boy had been remorseful and apologetic, he hadn’t seemed entirely concerned over having missed their reunion. It was the first time it’d ever been missed and England hated to admit how much it annoyed him, so he tried not to think on it.   
  
“How was your journey?” America asked over his shoulder as he finished lighting the fire in the stove, to try and usher in some warmth—though it was May, it was starting out to be a cool summer indeed.   
  
“Fair,” England said absently, resting in a chair and watching America as he worked. The boy had grown so much—he still had a long way to go, but he was far from the young child rolling between two blankets over a century ago.   
  
“That’s good,” America said absently, straightening and wiping his hands on his pant legs before turning around to smile at England.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Later that night, England watched America put the fire out and take the candle up to help England carry his trunk up to his room. England watched silently as America scooped it up effortlessly, balancing it on his shoulder and bicep, whistling slightly as he started walking, let England lead the way up the stairs.   
  
“Don’t injure yourself,” England reminded, glancing over his shoulder.  
  
America grinned. “I won’t.”   
  
“Hm,” England grunted and turned away. At the top of the stairs he turned right, towards the guest bedroom he slept in.  
  
“Hey, wait, England,” America said. “Um…”   
  
“What is it?”   
  
“Just—I kind of switched bedrooms around,” America admitted with a blush. “I mean—you can sleep in my room. The bed’s more comfortable.”   
  
England paused, turning around to face America fully, crossing his arms and raising one eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”   
  
“I mean,” America muttered quietly. “I… well…”  
  
“Out with it, my boy,” England said.   
  
America cleared his throat. “The bed you use—it smells like you.”  
  
England stared at him and America looked away, cheeks red.   
  
Something stirred in England’s chest and the man refused to acknowledge it. Instead, he adjusted his collar and looked away, his own face red.   
  
“Your bed will smell like you, then,” England said at last.   
  
“Is that a bad thing?” America asked.  
  
Instead of answering, England just pursed his lips and turned to the left, towards America’s bedroom—his, for the summer. He heard America’s heavy footfalls and a small sigh and knew the colony was following him. Once inside, England watched silently as America deposited the trunk in front of the foot of America’s—England’s—bed.   
  
“And why exactly now have you switched bedrooms?” England asked, once America straightened.  
  
He watched America stiffen and then glance at England out of the corner of his eye.   
  
The boy scratched the back of his head and England turned away, taking his candle over to the desk to light the half-burned candle in its holder there. Slowly, the room filled with a warm, golden light. England still refused to look at America, however, keeping his eyes down.   
  
“Hey,” America said after a moment. “England?”   
  
“Yes, dearest?” England asked, moving to the window to light the candle there.   
  
America stayed silent a moment before he inhaled sharply and said, “I love you.”   
  
England didn’t turn around, though he smiled. He finished lighting the candle and looked up out the window, past the reflection smiling softly, almost sadly, at him—out towards the full moon, the cloudless sky, the ocean in the distance. He could smell the sea on the air, even behind the closed doors and windows.   
  
“I know, my lad. I for you as well.”   
  
America was quiet for a long moment before hurrying his steps to walk up beside England. England was not yet used to having to look up to meet the boy’s eyes, but he did so now, tilting his head back with a gentle smile.  
  
“What is it?”   
  
America gave him a lopsided smile. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”   
  
“About?” his empire prompted.   
  
America shrugged. “People have just been talking. So I was thinking.”   
  
“Talking,” England repeated.  
  
“Yes…”   
  
“What on earth have they been talking about?” England asked, unsure how this had to do with anything but not sure what to make of the look on America’s face—calm, yet distant.   
  
“It’s not important,” America said, cryptically. He sighed. “You really love me, right?”   
  
“You’re actually asking,” England said, rather than asked, though there was amazement in his voice. “You know I do, America.”   
  
America nodded absently, drumming his fingertips along the windowsill, his eyes hooded and downcast. England wasn’t sure what it was his colonists had been saying, but England decided, upon seeing America’s expression, that whatever it was, he did not like it.   
  
“Right… as a brother, right?” America asked.  
  
“Yes, of course,” England said, looking alarmed. “Has someone been saying that I don’t?”   
  
America shook his head. “It isn’t that.”  
  
“You’re being awfully vague, boy,” England said with a frown. “Tell me. What is it on your mind?”  
  
“The truth is, England… to me… you’re…” America began.   
  
But the church bells began ringing, loudly, jarring America and he blinked a few times looking out the window towards where the bells were sounding. England watched America swallow, watched the drumming of his fingers stop, and the boy seemed to collect himself.   
  
He shook his head. “It’s late. You’re probably tired. You should sleep.” England stared at him and America took a step back, giving him a small smile. He turned away, just in time for England to hear the barest whisper of, “It’s not the same for me.”   
  
England’s eyes widened in alarm and he walked forward, grasping America’s elbow and keeping the boy there. America blinked at him in surprise.   
  
“What did you just say?” he asked.   
  
America laughed, loudly, almost forced. “Huh? Nothing, England. You should sleep.”   
  
“What have the colonists been saying?” England demanded.   
  
America blinked at him, then swallowed. “It’s… nothing, really.”  
  
“America,” England said in warning.   
  
But America brushed England’s hand off with a wave of his hand and a wide smile. “I’ll see you in the morning, England. Sleep well.”   
  
He left the room before England could stop him, and England didn’t think to follow after him and demand answers.  
  
Neither of them slept that night.   
  
  
  
  
  
**IV.**  
  
In the front garden he happened upon England walking up and down the grass, stopping to pick off a dead leaf from the bushes or give a top-heavy carnation something to lean against, or to take a deep breath of something, and then walking on again, with a little air of remoteness. England had always loved to garden, had tried to teach America how to identify the flowers—but he was usually not listening, off having adventures in the brush, down by the beach, or, now that he was older, working among the people.   
  
“Hullo, America,” England greeted when he caught sight of his charge.   
  
“I didn’t know you were coming today,” America admitted. “I would have come to meet you.”  
  
He wouldn’t have, though. America knew England was coming today—he’d known for months. He could predict when England would come to him like clockwork, now, and with it, more taxes and more restrictions. What had once been a pleasure to meet England had become something of an obligation, no matter how much he longed to see England himself—he did not long to see anything or anyone England brought with him.   
  
“It’s all the same,” England dismissed with a lofty shrug. “You haven’t met me in years—I’m far too used to getting by on my own at this point.”  
  
“Hm,” America agreed. “Me too.”  
  
He hoped England would hear the weight of his words, but England was stubborn—something he fancied America inherited from him—and merely smiled at him.   
  
“In any case,” England said with a small tip of his head back. “Is that any way to greet your empire?”   
  
America stilled, blinking, before swallowing thickly. Then, America whipped off his shabby hat, pressed it against his chest, and approached his caretaker.  
  
Once close enough, with a lopsided grin, he dropped to his knee, grasped England’s hand, and kissed it, playful and laughing when England lightly smacked him in the side of the head. “Greetings, my Fair One!”  
  
“Oh stop that,” England said, and America wondered if his cheeks were red—he couldn’t tell in the near darkness. He stood up, grinning a bit absently, pleased to have made England uncomfortable—greet his empire indeed—and watched as England looked away.   
  
England dropped into the chair under the large tree the two of them used to spend many sleepy summer days under together. America stretched out on the grass beside him, pulled a long stalk of grass and began chewing it.   
  
“Where were you today?” England asked.  
  
“Working,” America said. “I told you about it—in my last letter.”  
  
“Ah, yes… of course,” England said absently. “How did it go today?”  
  
America chewed on the stalk. “It’s boring. Feels like a prison.”  
  
“It must be awful,” England said slowly, not one to begrudge hard work, especially since he felt that America needed it, but also understanding that America, above all things, hated to feel locked up and forced to do something.  
  
“Hm,” America grunted, noncommittal.   
  
“I suppose,” he said vaguely, “one gets used to it. One gets used to anything.”   
  
“Yeah? Hum!” The ‘hum’ was so deep it seemed to boom from underneath the ground. England remembered a time when America was small enough to fit into his arms, where he struggled to roll over on a blanket underneath this same tree. “I wonder how it’s done,” brooded America, “I’ve never managed it.”  
  
Looking at him as he lay there, England thought again how attractive his boy was becoming. The boy had no ambition sometimes, it seemed, and yet England felt he was very gifted, exceptional. It was fine if he had no ambition, as it made England’s job caring for him easier. America was always full of schemes, new ideas, plans, but nothing came of it all. The new fire blazed in America, he almost heard it roaring softly as he explained, described, and dilated on the new thing, but a moment later it had fallen in and there was nothing but ashes, and America went about with a look like hunger in his dark blue eyes.   
  
“It seems to me like a prison, to go in to the work every day when I used to just spend time with you,” America said, “I don’t like it, England. To spend the ‘best years of one’s life’ sitting on a stool and doing the occasional heavy lifting when your boss demands it of you.”  
  
“Best years of your life?” England parroted.  
  
“That’s what people say.”  
  
“You’ll live much longer than they will,” England reminded.  
  
“Yeah, I know.” America arched his back a moment, stretched. England watched him. America continued, “It’s a silly way to spend someone’s one and only life, don’t you think?” He rolled over on the grass and looked up at England. “Tell me, what’s the difference between my life and an ordinary prisoner’s? The only difference is that I put myself in jail and nobody’s ever going to let me out.” He turned his face up, keeping England’s eyes tethered to him. “I’m like a moth that’s flown into a room of its own accord. I hit against the walls, hit against the windows, hit against the ceiling… do everything except fly out again. And all the while I’m thinking, I’ve only one night or one day, and there’s this vast world, waiting out there, undiscovered, unexplored.”   
  
“But if you feel that way, then why…” England began, unsure if he liked where this conversation was going.   
  
“Oh!” America interrupted, “There you have me. Why? There’s the question. Why don’t I fly out again? There’s the window or the door or whatever it is I came in by. It’s not hopelessly shut—is it?”  
  
England opened his mouth, but America gave him no time to answer.   
  
“I’m exactly like that insect. For some reason…” he paused, still looking up at England, “It’s not allowed, it’s forbidden, it’s against the insect law, to stop banging and flopping and crawling up the pane even for an instant. Why don’t I leave my prison? Why don’t I seriously consider, this moment, for instance, what it is that prevents me from leaving?”   
  
Suddenly, he smiled up at England.  
  
He said, in a changed voice, deeper than England remembered, “Do you know, England?”   
  
The sun had set. In the western sky there were great masses of crushed-up rose-colored clouds. Broad beams of light shone through the clouds and beyond them as if they would cover the whole sky. Overhead the blue faded; it turned a pale gold.   
  
England, feeling inexplicably fearful, possessive, angry, crushed it all down. There was nothing beautiful about this night.   
  
“America…” he began.  
  
“England,” America interrupted. “I’m only going to say this once—and I think this might be the last time I get to.”  
  
The fear was winning out in his chest. “What?”  
  
“I love you,” America said and shook his head when England opened his mouth to return the gesture. “But not in the way you do—not in the way you want me to.”   
  
“How…”  
  
America smiled. “No matter what happens—don’t forget that, okay?”   
  
England truly did not like how this conversation had progressed. He stared at America, long and hard, and America looked up at him absently, a slight smile on his face but his eyes distant—he’d already made decisions long ago, long before England had even realized and could stop it. He didn’t know what it was that had been decided, didn’t know what would happen. But he did not like the sadness, the distance, the betrayal that stared up at England when their eyes met.   
  
“Is it too late?” he asked, and wondered if he sounded hopeful.   
  
America studied him and sat up in the grass. His dark blue eyes stared up at him, thoughtful.   
  
He was quiet a moment. Then, he stood up beside him, sighed and stretched. He saw America, for the first time, not resolute, not gallant, not careless, but touched already with age. He looked very tall, and the thought crossed his mind, _He will continue to grow._  
  
America seized England’s hand, stared at him long and hard, before raising the hand to his lips and stooping to kiss his fingers.   
  
He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling but still looking too distant. And then he dropped the hand and retreated. It seemed as if England only blinked and the boy had disappeared. But before he knew it, America was gone.   
  
England’s hand hovered in the air, trying to reach after him.   
  
  
  
  
  
**V.**  
  
Years passed, and England was only just starting to get used to summers in England. He would spend his summer days in his room, in his study, trying so hard not to think about certain things and knowing that he wouldn’t be able to.   
  
He willed his heart to change, willed the distance to destroy everything that he’d known—but he was not the same as he had been a century ago. He could not convince himself, no matter how angered he was, how betrayed, how sad—he refused to say he was sad, that boy would come crawling back once he failed—he knew that his heart would not be able to forget. Not forget the way the boy had laughed and smiled, the way he’d fit so perfectly in his arms as he cradled him after a bad dream. He knew he would not forget how strong his boy had grown, how independent—and that was England’s own fault, wasn’t it, for letting the boy be as free as he was, to be free. But he had given his people life. He had let them live as they wanted, free… free.  
  
England knew that even if he forgot the feeling of holding that child, of having his cheek pressed to his, all the moments in the hundreds of summers they’d spent together, he would not be able to move his heart away.   
  
_I know all about myself now, I know. You’ve told me so often. You haven’t left me one rag of illusion to clothe myself in. But by God, I know what you are too… you made me see…_  
  
England sighed, most days, tried to sleep the time away. And then he pulled himself together, tried to shove away the sadness and betrayal, nurtured the growing hatred and frustration and humiliation. He focused on his other colonies—surely these ones would not betray him—and cursed America’s name.  
  
 _Let it be destroyed. Let it happen. Let it end, this cold insanity. Let it happen._  
  
Most nights, he felt as if he was going mad. He argued with himself, kept his eyes wide open so he wouldn’t dare dream of a time he would never see again.   
  
Years passed, he told himself his hatred was festering—that he could never have loved that child. No, no, not at all.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
 _And now I am lying in a misery. Quite alone. No voice, no touch, no hand… How long must I lie here? Forever?  
  
No, only for a couple of hundred years this time… _

**Author's Note:**

> \- Jamestown Settlement was the first successful English colony in North America, in 1607—and that’s when I have this fic begin.
> 
> \- "England understood this from past experience, from being the child staring up at a new caretaker, speaking words he did not understand, met only with a look of confusion": Ancient Rome’s empire stretched all the way to Britannia, though the Romans had a hard time controlling the area, on the periphery of the empire and filled with stubborn little bastards.
> 
> \- Queen Anne I reigned from 1702 to 1714, at her death, from disease she’d fought against her entire short life. She was the last monarch of the House of Stuart.
> 
> \- "England thought of France and his wedding proposal before and shivered": Nod to the canon strip when France tries to force England to marry him. Of course, now that I’ve written this fic and sit here trying to write notes, I can’t remember when exactly that strip was going to take place. So I’m going to take the cool way out and say that France and England have a long history of such shenanigans. It’s what happens when you’re constantly at war with one another (--and suppressing your undeniable attraction for one another, I mean..).
> 
> \- The first section deals with America’s “childhood”, effectively (what I deem to be the 17th century). The second section with the latter half o the 17th century and early 18th century. The third section with the mid-way part of the 18th century. The fourth section with the latter half of the 18th century, before the colony’s rebellion. The fifth section is, obviously, after the revolution, towards the turn into the 19th century. I, uh, hope that it was clear enough in the narrative but now I’m concerned that it isn’t and I just suck. So hurray for self-conscious footnotes to end this fic.


End file.
